


Hunger of The Pine

by FarynHeit



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, train fix, very very slight snafu/sledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarynHeit/pseuds/FarynHeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn’t slept for weeks and weeks, a guilt growing like a tumor in his stomach and his chest, he knows why it’s there, and knows that he can stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger of The Pine

He can’t sleep. He hasn’t slept for weeks and weeks, a guilt growing like a tumor in his stomach and his chest, throbbing rhythmically to his heartbeat and the noise of New Orleans outside the cracked pane of glass in the window. 

He knows why it’s there, how it’s planted itself in him, knows that it’s his fault that it burrowed itself inside, and knows that he can stop it. He knows what he has to do, 10 blocks to the VA, a smile flashed at the pretty secretary who would be just oh so happy to reunite him with a long lost buddy from the war.

A letter, written on some decent piece of paper he’s scrounged out from somewhere, an apology. An invitation maybe. Like that’s gonna fucking happen.

So he lays on his mattress, sheets kicked off since its June and the humidity makes everyone in town look like they’ve just come out of a pool. It’s Friday, he can hear the jazz and the yelling, knows some nice dame is getting a hand on the thigh in a bar, knows some drunk is getting a beating in an alley. And the thing is still there, physically painful. 

But ain’t that just like him. Knowing you can fix something, but having too much pride. Like he’s gonna fucking apologize.

-

The pain gets worse. It’s the middle of July and he’s dying. He’s sweating and he’s hot and there’s no escape from the noise and the fucking pain in his chest is driving him up the wall and he beats on drunks in alleys and he feels up the local whore, but it’s still hot and it’s still there, burning and aching and ever present and he has to done something about it before he physically tries to cut it out.

-

The secretary at the VA gives him an address, scrawled in feminine cursive and hands it off with a dazzling smile, wishing him a happy reunion. He makes his smile as genuine as possible, and leaves without a second glance. He goes home and stares at it for the rest of the night. He looks at it every day for a week, the guilt subsiding a little, hoping for some resolution, but it starts up again, just as strong. He burns holes around the edges with cigarettes, has bent it in half, and the half again. He is at a loss.

Does he write a letter? What does he say? “Sorry for leavin ya all alone, Sledgehamma, I mean it?” “You made me lose sleep for weeks ya fucking asshole?” “Seeing your pretty sleepin face scared me and I ran, but I need you?”

Does he just show up? Sledge’s a nice southern gentleman, he’d welcome him (maybe? He might not be so nice after you up and left him without a goodbye) and tell his mama that an old war pal had come to visit. Maybe Sledge won’t be happy to see him, a punch in the face might do him some good. It’ll take the focus off the thing in his stomach still throbbing away. 

He doesn’t think he can wait however long it takes to send letters, doesn’t want to have the guilt kick into full force, waiting for a response. So he packs so nice clothes (nice meaning minimum holes in the knees) and finds a train that’ll take him to Mobile.

-

He shows up on a Thursday afternoon, steps off and feels like he should run again. He’s too close, he can’t do this, how’s he gonna say sorry to him? The thing aches, hard, subduing any fight or flight he had left, all but forcing him to wave down a taxi driver and step into the back, showing the man the tattered, burned address. 

He tells the man to stop at the entrance, knowing that of course, this is Sledge’s rich boy house, towering and ever white. He pays the driver and as soon as he starts back the way they came, he takes a tentative step into the grounds. The guilt moves again, an urge to press forward, and he steps forward. The next steps come much easier.

They start to get harder the closer he gets to the porch, and he freezes once he’s planted at the door. He raises his hand once, twice, three times before he finally knocks. The thirty seconds it takes for the door to be opened are the longest, most painful of his life. 

And then the thing leaves. The guilt he’s been harboring for the last couple months just lifts away, and it’s euphoric. He can finally take a deep breath without some pain knocking around in his stomach. He feels so incredibly tired, like he can finally, finally, get some rest.

Sledge is wide eyed and disbelieving. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, and his voice is just the same, god, the same drawl and softness, even when he’s mad, like right now, and it’s the kindest thing he’s experienced so that train ride home. 

“Before you start swinging, I came to say sorry for leavin ya like that on the train. Wasn’ right of me,” he replies, looking down at the painted white porch, because he’s mustered enough pride to apologize, but not enough to look him in the eyes and say it.

Sledge is silent for a moment, before sighing and saying “Alright then, guess that’s what I’m gonna get out of ya, and I’ll take it.” But he’s got a small smile that lights up his face and if that ain’t the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

“You gonna stay a while? Came all the way here to say sorry, I guess I can fix you up a room,” Sledge says, holding the door open for him to step inside. 

“I didn’t come for you Sledgehamma, I came for Mrs. Sledge’s cooking and southern hospitality.” Snafu returns, throwing him his overnight bag and walking inside. He can’t be genuine, not yet, but Sledge knows him, knows how much it took for him to do it. So Sledge just laughs and closes the door, yelling to his mother about an old friend who saved his life.

-

The cooking is delicious, best thing he’s had since he’s been back, and now that the thing’s gone he can finally enjoy it. And they have nice conversations and Sledge smokes with him on the porch and it almost feels like he hasn’t dreamed about this since he stepped off that train.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic, so comments and constructive shit is very much appreciated. The ending is rushed and there's no detail but I wanted to get this out and I have work in 4 hours.


End file.
